by Amy Cross
Part Three
March 1955
Kentucky, USA
Joe Hart
"No way!" he says, smiling. "Seriously? Sixty-three years old?"
I laugh and nod. "Not a word of a lie," I reply, "but I've worked every day since I turned fourteen back in 1906."
We're standing in the kitchen of the old farm. Back in the day, this used to be all there was: a little wooden house with a kitchen and a bedroom. I lived here, and I ran the farm from here, and life was simple. Today, the farm is spread over thousands of acres and there's a big new farmhouse with a dozen rooms. This little place is empty now, and no-one ever comes here. But if this Mr. Lancaster guy is going to buy the farm, he'll want the full tour, so here we are. It sure brings back a few memories.
"I guess you're in good shape, then," he says.
I laugh again. "I've got three kids. Youngest is just four."
He's clearly shocked. "Four years old? So you were -"
"Fifty-nine when she was born," I say proudly. "Course, my wife's a lot younger. She was forty when the third one was born. No birth defects or nothing. Just another healthy, happy little girl."
There's silence for a moment. We sit at the table. It's the same little old wooden table that's been here for decades. The table I was born on, the table where I ate my mother's food, the table where we counted up the money from selling produce... The table where I sat that night with Patrick and Hamish. Hell, that was more than twenty years ago now. Hard to believe how the time has passed, really.
Without thinking too much about it, I look at my hands. They look so young still, not a mark on 'em. And the fingers are still strong, like they were just made yesterday.
"You have the hands of a young man," says Lancaster.
"Don't let that fool you, Mr. Lancaster," I reply. "I've worked long and hard on this farm, every day since I returned from the war. Even..." I pause, remembering the years when I tried to work but failed, the years when I had no hands, before things improved.
"I heard a story about you," says Lancaster. "Crazy story, about how you didn't have any hands when you came back from the war. But... It sure looks to me like you've got hands now."
I laugh, but it's a forced laugh. "Sure," I say. "I guess those stories got a little exaggerated over time."
"I guess so," Lancaster says with a sigh. "This is a beautiful farm, Mr. Hart. And the price is certainly acceptable. Can I ask why you're selling?"
"I'm retiring," I say, with considerable satisfaction. "I reckon I'm due some time off, and my wife and I want to go and live nearer her family in Dedston."
"Sounds like you deserve your retirement," Lancaster says. "Well, I'm ready to sign the papers when you are, Mr. Hart, and I can wire the money to you first thing in the morning."
There's a sudden knock at the door. We both look over, and I can see that Mr. Lancaster is a little perturbed by the thought of a new arrival.
"I thought you said we're miles from anywhere," he says cautiously.
"We are," I reply. I get to my feet and go over, opening the door to find a well-dressed young man smiling at me. Damn it, but he can't be a day over twenty-five, but he looks pretty well off and confident, and he has piercing blue eyes.
"Joseph Hart, I presume," he says, reaching out a hand. We shake. "Firm handshake," he continues. "Do you mind if I come in? I have a business proposition to put to you."
To be honest, I'm a little shocked. This guy doesn't look like he's long out of short trousers, but he has the air and confidence of someone with a lot of experience.
"Well..." I say, struggling to find the right words. "I'm in the middle of speaking to another gentleman at the moment..."
"Yes!" the stranger says. He steps right in, without being invited, and approaches Mr. Lancaster. "Tom Lancaster, I believe?" They shake hands. "I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Lancaster. Successful property trader, dabbler in the stock-market, all-round family man. Yes?"
Mr. Lancaster smiles. "Well, yes, you do seem to have heard a lot about me. I'm flattered. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."
"Nimrod," the stranger says, smiling at both of us. "Charles Nimrod. You won't have heard of me, I'm afraid, since my family has been very quiet in recent years. However, we're very interested in branching out and increasing our portfolio of property in this area, which is why I'm here, really." He turns to me. "I was wondering if I could take a look around your farm, Mr. Hart? I'd be very interested in -"
"Hang on!" Mr. Lancaster says, getting up from his seat. "Mr. Hart and I have just agreed... well, in principle, anyway... to a sale. Isn't that right, Mr. Hart?"
I nod. "I'm afraid you're a little late, Mr. Nimrod. I can't go back on my word here."
Nimrod smiles. "I'll double whatever Mr. Lancaster is offering you."
I take a deep breath. This kid means business. "It's not just about the money, Mr. Nimrod -"
"Triple."
I laugh uneasily. "It's really not about the money. It's about what's right for the farm and -"
"Are you really going to buy this place, Lancaster?" Nimrod asks, turning to face him. "Is that really your plan? Why? This place is so far from your family. Why would you want to buy a place so far from your natural habitat?"
"Well -" Mr. Lancaster starts to say.
"Oh!" Nimrod interrupts. "Of course, I forgot. I'm sorry. I remember. You have your family in... Kansas, is that correct?"
"Yes..." says Mr. Lancaster cautiously. "We live in Kansas."
"So I suppose it would be convenient," Nimrod continues, "to have this little farm way out here in Kentucky, for you to bring your little friends once in a while?"
There's an awkward silence.
"I... I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Nimrod," Mr. Lancaster says, but he looks extremely uneasy and he's starting to sweat.
"Your little male friends," Nimrod says. He turns to me. "Mr. Lancaster here has a history of being caught in compromising positions with younger boys," he says, smiling. "I suppose he thinks that if he brings them out here, no-one will know."
I look at Mr. Lancaster, expecting him to punch this Nimrod fellow. Instead, he simply grabs his hat and hurries out, muttering something as he goes. The door swings shut after he's left, and a moment later I hear his car start and the tires screech as he heads away as fast as possible.
"I'm sorry," says Nimrod.
I turn back to him.
"I scared your buyer away," he continues. "Still, it's fortunate that I have the ability to more than compensate you."
"Was that true?" I ask. "About Lancaster and little boys?"
"Of course," Nimrod says. "His family know. They've kept it under wraps, but only on the condition that he stops. He can't stop, though, so he thought he'd buy a place like this and bring his victims... sorry, friends... out here." He smiles. "He doesn't kill them. It's nothing like that. He just uses them for his pleasure, and then he drops them off back outside their homes. Most of them end up being somewhat scarred by their experiences, though, so it's not an entirely harmless practice, is it? If you doubt what I'm saying, you can ask around in Topeka, Kansas. Everyone knows about Tom Lancaster, even if they don't want to admit it."
I take a deep breath. "I never would have entertained a sale to him if I'd known."
"Don't worry," says Nimrod. "It can be very hard to know everything about a person. Some people are so good at keeping their true selves hidden. It's an art for some men. Makes it very difficult for a good, honest person such as yourself." He smiles. "Or like me."
I sit back down at the table. "What's your offer, Mr. Nimrod?"
"A real businessman. To the point and direct. I like that." Nimrod takes a seat opposite me. He pulls out a piece of paper and looks at it for a moment, and eventually he folds it away and looks over at me. "Two million dollars," he says. "Cash. It's all waiting."
I take a deep breath. Two million dollars is exactly double what Lancaster offered me, and that in itself was a fair price. T
wo million is just extreme, over the top. What does this Nimrod guy know that I don't know? There's got to be something. Perhaps he's from an oil company and they think there's a good chance of striking lucky on this land, in which case I'd be a fool to sell at that price.
"It's a good offer, Mr. Hart," says Nimrod. "A very good offer. I want this farm, for... sentimental reasons. It reminds me of good times."
"This farm," I say firmly, "has been in my family for more than a century. You, on the other hand, look like you're barely out of school, so I fail to see how this place could remind you of anything."
Nimrod smiles. "Good point. Nevertheless, I really do want this farm, and you really do want to sell. And two millions dollars is a lot of money, so it seems to me that it shouldn't be too hard for us to reach an agreement. What do you say?"
I think about it for a moment. It's a lot of money, he's right about that, but something about this seems to be wrong. I can't put my finger on it, but this Nimrod guy doesn't seem quite above board.
"This offer has a time limit," Nimrod says. "I'd very much like to get things agreed by sundown, or... Well, let's just say that I'm a man of action, Mr. Hart. I see something and I go for it, but I know when to quit. Two millions dollars is a lot of money and if you're not going to take my offer now, I see no reason to waste time dancing around the subject. I'm sorry if that seems harsh, but I think it's a good way to do business."
Pausing for a moment, I'm still not sure what to do. I definitely want to sell the land, but this high offer has really got me thinking. We stand up and head over to the door.
"I have the telephone number for your house," Nimrod says. "I'll give you a call this evening, around sundown, and you can let me know your decision."
"Sure," I say. There's something very wrong about this whole arrangement, and I need time to think about it. For one thing, I don't like this Nimrod guy very much at all. Something about him just seems... wrong.
We shake hands, but as we do so, I feel a sudden jolt of heat. The pain makes me try to pull away, but Nimrod keeps my hand firmly gripped in his own. I can feel my flesh melting, and my bones dying. Eventually, after what feels like an eternity, he releases his grip and I clutch my hand to my chest.
"Sorry about that," Nimrod says with a cautious smile.
I look down and see that the fingers and thumb of my right hand are gone. All that's left is a bloody, pulpy mess. The hand is back to how it was before I made the deal with Patrick. I look at my left hand, which is still fine.
"What did you do?" I shout.
"I just reminded you of certain things," Nimrod says. He steps toward me and grabs my left hand. The same pain hits it, and I pull away but it's too late: the fingers and thumb are gone from that hand as well. I drop to my knees, staring in horror at the two stumps. It's like I'm back to how I was after the war.
"I'm offering you a good deal, Mr. Hart," Nimrod says. "A very good deal. And I happen to know that you've made some much worse deals in the past, haven't you?" He towers over me with a look of malevolence in his eyes. "You've given up things that are very precious to you. Am I right? Precious things that haven't even been born yet." He crouches down and puts his face level with mine, eye to eye. "Mr. Hart, you have a history of making devilish deals. Why not add one more to the list?"
I stare at my fingerless hands. How did this happen? "Anything," I say quietly. "I'll give you anything. Just give me back my god-damned hands." I look at him. "Now!" I shout.
Smiling, Nimrod pulls out the piece of paper from his pocket, and a pen. He puts them on the floor. "Sign," he says. "Two million dollars in exchange for your farm, and everything goes back to normal."
I try to pick the pen up, but my stumps can't manage to grab something so small. I struggle, but it just won't work, and the frustration brings tears to my eyes. It's like the old days, when everything seemed to be going to hell.
"Use your fucking teeth, man," Nimrod sneers, leaning in close.
I use my stumps to steady myself, and I carefully pick up the pen with my teeth. Trying to stay calm, I sign the contract, and then I drop the pen.
"There!" I shout. "It's yours!"
"Almost," says Nimrod. He puts another sheet of paper in front of me. "Everything has to be in duplicate. One copy for you, one copy for me."
I sign the second copy.
"Are you satisfied now?" I growl.
"Excellent," says Nimrod, taking the contract, folding it up neatly and putting it in his pocket. "I'll have two million dollars wired to your bank account first thing in the morning."
"And my hands?" I shout. "Fix them!"
"Fix them?" Nimrod asks. "What are you talking about? They're fine."
I look down at my stumps, but the fingers and thumbs are back. Both hands are completely normal again, and he didn't even touch me this time. I stand up and hold my hands out, staring at them. "How..." I ask, but my voice trails off. I don't understand any of this. I wriggle my fingers. Everything works again, just as it should.
"You should take a nap," says Nimrod, heading to the door. "I'm glad we were able to do business together, Mr. Hart. It's always a good feeling when two men are both able to get what they want. I hope you and your wife will be very happy together."
I keep staring at my hands as I hear him walking away. After a moment, I turn and look around the room. This farm, this place... they're not mine anymore. My father's farm, his father's farm before that... sold. Overcome with panic, I rush to the door and head outside. "I've changed my mind!" I shout. "Take my hands, I want my -" I stop. There's no-one here. I look around, but as far as the eye can see, there's no-one around. I look at my copy of the contract. It's real, all right. I just signed the farm away. I look up at the blue sky. What the hell just happened to me? Why do these people keep coming into my life?
Joe Hart
Two days later, sitting in a bar in town, I stare into a pint of beer. The shock of what happened still hasn't worn off. I still wake up in the middle of the night sometimes, convinced that my fingers will have gone again, but the feeling of relief is always so strong when I find that they're still attached. My wife has noticed that I'm sleeping badly, but I tell her it's nothing to worry about. Still... I find myself spending more and more time here in the bar, drinking alone. I have two million dollars in the bank, but I can't stop thinking about all the terrible things I've had to do along the way.
"What's up?" asks a voice behind me.
I turn to find a stranger looking at me with concern. He's middle-aged, maybe forty or a little over, with a kind, wise face.
"Do I know you?" I ask, instantly regretting the fact that I sound a little hostile.
"No," says the stranger, taking a seat next to me. He reaches out a hand for me to shake. "My name's John. I'm passing through town; I just recognized the look of a man with a lot on his mind and perhaps a need to talk."
I shake my head, looking down at my beer. "I don't need to talk to anyone," I say. "Thank you all the same." I keep focusing on the beer, hoping this stranger will go away.
"Actually," John says, "I kind of have another reason to be here talking to you. It's a little awkward. When I told you my name, I deliberately didn't tell you my surname. I didn't want to scare you away."
I turn to him.
"My name is John Tarmey," he continues. "Doctor Richard Tarmey was my father. I was just a baby when he died, but..." He pauses. "I don't know how to bring this up, but I've been doing some work, investigating my father's life and of course his death, and I know you met him right before he died, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about what happened."
I take a deep breath. This is the last thing I need right now. The very last thing.
"I know you were there," John says. "I've read the records. All the reports. You were the last person to see him alive, and it seems to me that you're the only one who knows what really happened." He pulls out a set of papers from his pocket and puts them on the bar. "This is the off
icial report. I've read it a thousand times. It's bullshit. I need to know why my father died."
I shake my head. "You really don't, kid. Just go home. The past is the past. Leave it that way."
He orders two beers from the barman. "One of those is for you," he says. "Just give me the time it takes to drink one beer, and then I'll leave you alone forever, I swear to God."
"Kid," I say, "I've had a rough day."
"I've had a rough fucking life," he replies bitterly. "This report -" He shoves the papers in front of me. "This report says my father might have been a fucking murderer. A rapist. A drug addict. So come on, anything you tell me can't be worse than that, can it?"
I sigh as the barman delivers the two beers. "I drink fast," I say, finishing off my old beer and then taking a good swig from the new one. "You'd better be quick. But before you ask anything, kid, be sure that you really want to know." I turn to him and take a deep breath. "I'll answer any question you ask truthfully, even if I reckon I shouldn't."
John nods, before taking a sip from his beer.
"Come on, then," I say. "You gonna ask me anything or what?"
He seems nervous, as if he's suddenly not sure if he really wants to do this. "The report," he says slowly, "says that just before he died, my father attacked and murdered a nurse at the hospital. It also says he might have done the same to another nurse a few months earlier, and possibly a third at his previous position. Do you know if that's true?"
I take a long, deep sip from my beer, which is now one third gone. "I believe it's true, yes," I say.
"What does that mean?" he snaps back.
"It means that I believe it's true," I say. "I heard the screams, I saw the nurse, and your father confessed to me. Okay? I saw him finish her off. It was a confusing night, and there was a lot of other stuff going on, but I'm pretty sure that your father killed that nurse, and I have no reason to doubt that he was being honest when he confessed to the other murders. There. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
"Did he say why he did it?"
"He wanted to fuck!" I say loudly. I sigh, realizing that I should keep my voice down. "He seemed to have some issues about women. You know, like he thought they should let him fuck them and if they wouldn't then he'd... make them. And then I guess, I don't know why he ended up killing 'em afterwards, I guess to shut 'em up. He said he was sorry, he said he'd stop right after he was through with me."